The Last Hit

I just finished a flash fiction story (under 500 words) just to see if I could do it. It is about a battered woman that finds herself.

It all seemed to be in slow motion-like one of those cheesy movie scenes where the bad guy clips the jaw of the hero. His blazing fist strikes him right above the cheekbone causing his head to jerk sideways. His mouth jarred open while saliva mixed with blood drip all over the floors and splatter on the walls. He’s knocked silly, shocked by the blow. Unsteady. He staggers to catch his balance but ends up falling anyway.

Somehow it didn’t seem so cheesy anymore as it played over and over again in my head. It seemed more like abuse. I hated that word though. Mentally, I could never see myself…he’d been doing it for so long-I always thought it was normal. We were normal. And that I could change him.

It wasn’t cheesy anymore because the person who was getting punched was me. He got me right in the kisser. Again. Before I even seen the red stuff I could taste it in my mouth. Tasteless but thicker than my own spit. I opened my jaw a few times to see if it was broken. It wasn’t. This time.

My whimpers turned into a low chuckle. I was just as surprised as he was. As he grabbed my hair and dragged me backwards they became loud sniggers which enraged him even more. “Oh, this is funny to you?” He tightened his grip, tossing me like a raggedy Ann doll to the couch. “We’re going to see about that,” he growled.

A familiar grin flashed across his face. The same kind he had when he had a good hand when he played poker with the boys.

He pounced on top of me and slapped me a few more times. My eyes were tightly shut as I laughed some more. The tears were gone. My body was numb from all the years of pain he inflicted. I was soul-less. It left me a long time ago. I’d just never noticed it till now. I couldn’t feel the supposed stings of his palm or the pound of his fist.

And he didn’t like that. He got off on the pain. The control- well, the control he once had.

His nostrils flared like an enraged bull, his chest heaved up and down rapidly. And I looked down upon my physical body from way above and saw the back of his head and my bruised face. I opened my swollen eyes partly, bleeding but still smiling. It’s the first time that I’d seen fear in his eyes. The tables had turned. I was in control now.  

My smile faded. “Get off of me.” He puffed his chest then his lips thinned. He got off abruptly, obviously frustrated. I sat up slowly. It was over. Now I laughed on the inside. It was finally over. The thick metal chains he’d wrapped around me didn’t seem so strong anymore. I had the key too. And I was never turning back.            

Short Story: The Other Man

I wanted to write a short story from a man's perspective. So here is my first short story. Its a suspense, thriller and fiction ofcourse.

So here it is:

It’s that smell again. That same smell of Aqua Velva and Axe body spray…and cigarettes. Connie didn’t even smoke. I gritted my teeth, throwing down her sheer blouse onto the side of her pink Adidas duffel bag- the one she used when she went to the gym. Why would a sheer blouse be in a musty gym bag? I felt my eyes water but not one god damned tear fell out. Not one. I continued the search-what else was I going to find in her big bag of tricks?

The rough hairs on the back of my neck, right near the hairline began to prickle like popcorn kernels on a hot, greased skillet. The black panties-lace, delicate- became squished in my not so delicate fist. I rammed it up my nostrils and took a whiff inward. I closed my eyes, wondering-imagining how the other man looked. How good he made her feel when he yanked these off her dove smooth skin and desecrated her by ramming his…

“Daddy?” Pooky called out to me.

I opened my eyes to look at the angel we’d created together. I saw Connie in her tiny little face, Pooky wasn’t there anymore. She stared at the panties painfully clenched in my fist. I hadn’t even tried to conceal it. She needed to know that Mommy was a whore.

She pointed accusingly. “Why are Mommy’s panties in your hand?”

Why, sweetheart? Well, Mommy hasn’t been faithful to Daddy. She’s been too busy putting other men’s dicks into her mouth.

She was only six for goodness sakes! What was I thinking?

“Go to your room,” I said instead.

“But I’m not sleepy,” she whined, rubbing her eyes. Just like her jezebel mother, always fuckin’ whining.

“Go to bed,” I ordered slow and controlled.

She started jumping up and down as if she were on a trampoline. “But I don’t wanna’.”

“Go to your fuckin’ room,” I barked. She stopped; her eyes were wide and teary. She sped off like Speedy Gonzalez and slammed the door. This pushed me to the brink. My own daughter hated me. Why? Because her stupid mother couldn’t be monogamous. I stood up and put my hands on my face. I began to weep like a fuckin’ little girl who’d just scraped her knee on the sidewalk. For what? That bitch wasn’t even worth it. All she did was deceive me. Cheat on me. Make me look like a damn fool! My hand quickly progressed into my hair. They clamped on and pulled.

I was transforming into a monster. I had no control over it. It pulsed through my veins like some ruthless serum. It even came out in breath with the carbon dioxide. I wasn’t me anymore. I’d turned into the one with no conscience. No feeling. I balled my fist and smashed it against the mirror. My back was hunched, my heart beat was wild and I was treading on the page of sanity. I raised my work up to eye level. It was bloody of course. A few nasty cuts. I waited for it to throb-hurt even.

It never came.

I heard her jeep pull up into the driveway, I began to laugh uncontrollably. I had no idea what was so funny. I wiped the sweat from my forehead (with the good hand) and held onto my sore stomach with the other. The door downstairs opened. Then closed. I heard her toss her keys on the end table. I calmed myself down and watched the door. She probably would want to know why my hand was bleeding and why glass was everywhere.

“Hey-” she paused, studying the room then going straight to my self-injured hand. She rushed towards me. “What happened? Let me see,” she said grabbing my hand. Aww. She was all worried about little old me.

I needed to do one thing and one thing only. I opened up my arms silently. Reluctantly, she came inside and wrapped her arms around me. It was familiar. Something I kept telling myself not to love. I dug my face into the shoulder of her shirt and in her hair.

Aqua Velva, Axe body spray and…cigarettes.

“Hey.” She struggled. “Your-your hurting me.”

I hadn’t known that I was doing it with all my strength. I was trying to unconsciously squeeze the life out of her for all the turmoil she’d caused me. The fear, shock and pure surprise in her familiar eyes were actually comical. I felt myself smiling.

She managed to get out of my grips and run to the door. My reach was too long; I grabbed the back of her shirt. We both ended up tumbling down to the ground. I landed on top of her. She scratched me. Punched at me even. I bet she didn’t do all of that to her lover, I imagined.

Both my hands crept up to her flimsy neck. They fastened onto it like a snake to its prey. It told me that she’d deserved it. It told me to feel no pain. It told me that she didn’t deserve to live. Her tongue popped out her mouth and her eyes bulged as my thumbs dug deeper into her throat. My lips were dry and pulled over my teeth, my sweat pattered on her face while her struggles became weak and her soul crept halfway from her body.

But I stopped. It was sudden. She gasped. I slid from off the top of her body and sat up against the bed frame. I laid my head back. Silent and thoughtful. After she was done coughing and choking, she cursed me and tried hitting me. I don’t remember much after that. At that point I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted it all to go away. I wanted us to go back to what we were. I wasn’t quite sure if after this I could still believe that any of that was ever true.           

          

      

  

Wearing Skinny Jeans (Big Girl Style): The Juicy Details on the New Trend

Wearing Skinny Jeans (Big Girl Style): The Juicy Details on the New Trend

Skinny jeans…are they for a specific person or sex? Are they for the scantily skinny- the flamboyantly gay? So many questions. Not enough answers. Oh, the horror! We see them everywhere…and on everyone: celebs, models and even, ugh, kids? Yes, I did see them on three-year olds (a couple of times).

I’ve researched the topic as well as had some, ergh, well run ins with some skinny-jeans-gone- wrong-victims. First off, I’d like to address the “juicy haters”. I’ve read a few blogs that were just bashing anyone of thicker descent who wore skinny jeans. Me no likey that. Don’t get me wrong some plus sized gals shouldn’t wear certain cuts of jeans but by no means does it have to do with their weight. It all has something to do with the person’s body type.

I wish that people would get this out of their mind. Not all skinny people can wear everything. Period. Sorry. It is a fact. The same goes for medium people with big boobs, short people with stumpy legs, stick figures with no curves and so on. People need to dress for their bodies. True? Just because something is a fad- like said skinny jeans- doesn’t mean that you can be a part of it. Yes, I know it hurts. But you’ll get over it.

So, I will show you how (and how not) to do a skinny jean.

Always have to start with the bad first:

 
This girl looks like a hot mess (I do give her props for trying though). First off, she pairs these jeans with a frumpy dress shirt and a pair of “fugly” shoes. Her body type seems to be fairly pear shaped as well. This might not be a good cut for her. She needs a jean that will balance her top (hips) and bottom (calves and legs) out. I would recommend a boot cut jean, dark denim.

Now let’s go to the oh-so-fab Marie Claire fashion columnist, Ashley Falcon:

Love. Love. And loving it some more. There is nothing that I can say badly about this outfit. She has great angles and proportions to give her a slim line from the top of her head down to the bottom of her shoe. Her legs look super long and slim. The skinny jeans work perfectly in proportion to the boy cut blazer. She adds a pop of color with her blouse peeping out from underneath. Not too many embellishments with the necklace and clutch.

See. Skinny jeans can go right if you know what you are doing. Know your body and work it all together with a large heaping of confidence. A juicy girl’s most coveted asset.

xoxox

The Juicy Details

   

Long time no See

I am almost always constatly working on my book...its an obsession! Eeeeeck! That's why I have no time for anything else. Good thing or bad thing. I dont know. I am definately thinking about the self publishing route. How much longer can I go getting rejected by agents! The horror! But yeah, somethings gotta change because I can't keep doing this. I've edited three times, researched, bought books, read blogs and testimonies.

Whew. That was alot. Lol. But yeah. I need to look at some other ventures. I didn't want to self publish but im leaning that way. It will be alot of work. But I have to get my book out into the public. They need to read this cool, kick ass story!

On another note, my allergies are whooping my ass so I am going to get off!

Peace out!

Facebook m3!

lol.

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit: Episode #4 Abia Abdullah

How could I let this happen? I’m Muslim. I was supposed to be the smart one. The one no one thought could be so weak. So stupid. At the end I just wanted to get it over with and for them to find out. Without me having to tell them. I didn’t have the courage to have those words come out of my mouth.

It was too embarrassing. Shameful.

I remembered it like it was yesterday. I’d been working part-time and just began my freshman year in college. It was my first semester. I knew what it was like to taste freedom. My parents home-schooled me as well as my other two sisters. I was the baby of the family and the last to leave the nest. I wanted to follow in their footsteps and make it in college smoothly as they had.

That was my parent’s goal. Islam and education. Marriage was last. My Abu wouldn’t accept anything less. For that we were sheltered. We’d be in the basement while my Abu worked and my mother taught. We’d sneak and talk about how it would be cool to go to a “real” school one day.

Since I was the last one, it was hard. I mean I had friends but I needed to be out in the world. I’d speak with my sisters everyday and ask them what it was like to be living the college life. They’d never answer but I found out soon enough. When I got out there.

I was out there.

And quickly was overwhelmed by the world as it rushed me all at once. I was a guppy in a sea full of sharks.

At my first class I met this guy. He was a year older than me and always sat next to me in class. One time he asked me about my scarf and told me how beautiful it was. He told me that I wasn’t anything like these other girls. I was different. That’s where the conversation began. Then it led to him showing me around the school. He was easy to get along with and very cute. I trusted him. We began to hang out every day at school in a group of course. I didn’t want to be with him alone. Not yet anyway.

One day he asked me over to his house to study. We did the most horrible thing. He kissed me. I thought I was going to go to the hellfire immediately. How could I’ve been so stupid to be alone with a non-Muslim man? Or any man for that matter. I knew better than that. At the same time the kiss excited me. I’d never kissed anyone before.

I had all these mixed feelings about it and ended up just not talking to him for a while. I tried to hide at school but on one occasion he found me. Then I let myself go. I began to see him, sneaking out of the house and even lying. My feelings were so strong for him that it engulfed anything else that I’d ever thought. I made myself think that no one would understand our unique love.

That’s what I thrived off of. That was my justification.

We ended up doing it. I was ashamed but couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t know the person it was I’d become. I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even my sisters. They would judge me. I didn’t need that. I needed someone to comfort me and tell me that it was ok and it was natural. And that everyone did it and it was no big deal.

I was his Muslim girlfriend. I was proud of the title around all of his non-Muslim friends. Even though some of his ex’s referred to me as the Muslim bitch. I was ok as long as I was going to get to be with him. Even though on the outside I was happy, the Muslim girl on the inside was always talking. But I told it to shut up. And went on about my business. I continued my horrid ways for six months.

I began having morning sickness. And immediately took a “pee” test from CVS. It was positive. And I was screwed.

They were going to kill me. so instead of telling them, I left the test in the trash bin in plain sight and went into my bedroom and waited. I thought about nothing in particular. Only what the hell I was going to do.

Just ten minutes later, my mom bursts into the room, in tears, holding the test in her hand. my Abu came in from behind, his eyes as big as anything I’ve ever seen. My mother shook me, cursed me and even slapped me across the face. I took it. Because I deserved it. I deserved more than that. My father stood behind her, tears coming down his face saying softly “Why?” over and over again.

It was like an outer body experience as I watched the events unfold from above. My mother shook me again until I snapped out of my trance. “Who is the father?”

Every person wants to know that question when someone turns up pregnant. I looked up and told her that it was some guy from school. She dropped down to her knees and asked what every Muslim parent would ask their child if they ended up pregnant. “Is he Muslim?”

I shook my head from side to side. My Abu caught her as she fell backwards, fainting.

For the first few months my belly grew hard and large. My parents barely spoke to me. my sisters were disappointed but spoke to me uneasily. My family and friends found out through the grapevine as Muslims love to talk. Some of the storied they made up were ridiculous but I didn’t care.

I was six months pregnant and as hungry as ever waiting on dinner to come. My mom was making my favorite, tacos. “So, Abia, what are your plans?” my mom asked as I stuff a taco in my mouth. I swallowed hard.

“About the baby or my living arrangements?”

She dropped a spoon and it clinked on the plate, her bottom lip began to shiver. She covered her face and bowed her head. My father’s eyes bored into my soul. I could silently hear the words he wanted to utter. Instead he sighed and shook his head. My mother regained composure. “About everything.”

That’s all I had time to think about were my plans but it always ended up at a dead end. “I wish I could tell you.” I jumped back in my seat when my Abu’s hand slammed down on the table making the utensils and plates rattle. “Oh, Allah, give me the strength not to hurt my child. Oh, Allah give me the right words to say because this is either a test or punishment.”

“Ameen,” my mother and I said lowly.     

 “Ask her again,” he looked at me but was talking to my mother.

“What are your plans, Abia? For yourself and the baby?”

Episode 3-From Christina to Yasmina

My name used to be Christina but as of ten months ago they call me Yasmina. That’s my Muslim name. One with a meaning. It means Jasmin flower. Beautiful. I am now a part of a huge Muslim community that spans all over the world. And no matter what, it’s still growing.

I started out as a non-Muslim going to WSU with a major in Social Work. My parents were Christian and me; I didn’t really have a so-called religion. Since I lived in such a diverse community and there was such a huge Muslim population, I was familiar with them but never really looked into it. That is until I became close friends with Aisha. She asked me to accompany her to this thing called an Eid gathering.

She explained to me that after the holy month of Ramadan which entailed all Muslims to fast for 30 days, sun up to sun down, they had a huge celebration afterwards. Muslim sisters and brothers would come together and join in all kind of festivities. I’d never seen anything like it before.

Aisha put this beautiful sari on me adorned with sequence and beading, she also put a hijab (scarf) on my head to cover my hair for respect. I felt good to be dressing up like everyone else. After prayers is when I first saw him.

Amin was this fine chocolate man, tall and gorgeous from head to toe, with a dazzling smile and wavy hair. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him as he greeted brothers. I elbowed Aisha in the rib, “Who is that?”

She squinted through the crowd and then smiled, “Oh, him…”

Aisha asked her older brother about him and one thing led to the next. He approached us outside just as we were leaving. “Asalam’alakum, sisters,” he looked at me with a shy grin.

I was glad to know the Islamic greeting and replied, “Wa’alakum a’salam.”

Later I found out that he was a student at WSU as well. At first we’d talk online and then we’d go on campus for lunch or sit and talk in between classes.

A few months later, I decided to convert and I never looked back even though my family detested it. It didn’t matter though. I was still going to school and working. Being Muslim didn’t change any of my goals and eventually they’d come around.

Like most female converts I didn’t choose to be Muslim because of a man. I didn’t do it do “go with him” so to speak. I did it because something inside was calling me to the truth.  I couldn’t deny anything that the Quran said. I couldn’t deny that the bible which my parents taught me from had fallacies. I did believe that everything we did had its weight and that we all weren’t going to heaven. But instead would be judged on the good and bad things we did on life. I enjoyed being around positive Muslims and I felt clean for the first time in my life. Even though I’d talk to Amin about Islam I didn’t learn everything from him. I went to my local mosque to get information about Islamic rules. Or if I couldn’t figure out a verse then I’d try and talk to my Imam for clarification.

For me Islam was great but I was human and like humans I had my weaknesses. A few of mine were the way I dressed. I wasn’t ready to make that leap yet. Of course I covered my hair but my clothes weren’t as modest as they could’ve been. And some sisters would turn their noses and scoff whenever they seen me.

I couldn’t believe that Muslim sisters could be so cruel but as time went on, I reminded myself that every religion and culture had its bad apples. And that Islam wasn’t exempt. It was ok because I was a new Muslim still and I was working on myself first. So no matter what they said or didn’t say, I kept it moving. They wanted me to get ghetto, they wanted me to lose my cool. So I killed them with kindness.

That saved me…and them.

There was a group in particular that hated my guts. They were angry that I was associated with Amin. From what he told me, they stalked him on fb and he denied them. They even went as far as trying to get other brothers to convince him that they were a better pick. How thirsty was that? I thought. I listened and didn’t say anything. But he did tell me that they were going to target me, spread lies and all that good stuff. “So they are basically Muslim equivalents to hood possums?”

We both had a good laugh at that one.

At some points they went as far as texting his phone. The messages were about me of course, calling me every name in the book. So Islamic I thought. If I had met this broads before I converted I dreaded to think that I would’ve even converted after seeing the way they acted.

One day at Jumah they got real bossy and cornered me after prayer. It was funny to me because most of them were all abaya-ed up and one even wore a veil on her face. Still as ghetto as they wanted to be. “Salams,” one said, I think she was the ringleader her name was Amenna.

I slipped on my shoes, “Wa’alakum asalam.”

“So, sister,” she said with emphasis on sister. “How do you like being Muslim?

“What kind of question is that?” my eyebrows scrunched together.

“Well we just wanted to know how it was going, you know with how to dress and everything. We saw you were having a hard time with dressing correctly.”

They all giggled simultaneously while I stood there in shock. Did she really just insult me?

The veiled one spoke up, “How long have you been Muslim anyway?”

“Long enough,” I pushed past.

 They laughed and one yelled, “Just because you put a scarf on ya’ head don’t mean you Muslim boo!”

The other shouted, “Hey convert, he needs a real Muslim woman!”

I stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly. They weren’t going to disrespect me in the mosque like that. Who did they think they were messing with? These hood Muslims in black were about to get a beat down, New Muslim style. “What did ya’ll just say?  I unpinned my scarf and tied it up in a bun. I plucked my earrings out and put them in my pocket. All I could see was excitement in their eyes, they were about to get what they have wanted all along.     

  

    

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit- Episode #2- The Glamorous life of Nabila Shareef

I am sitting in a conference room downtown at a big ass wooden table across from my soon-to-be ex-husband, Wakil Bashir, with my lawyer, Beth. His old butt is sitting across the table in a suit and tie, looking like one of those Nation of Islam brothers. Who dressed him this morning? This is what I mean, that is why we are right here, right now.

I really don’t remember how or why I was even attracted to him in the first place. And I don’t even know why I let him drag me to this messed up state anyway from Atlanta. He was all promising me the world and stuff. I should’ve known that once a Muslim nigga’ always a Muslim nigga’, he didn’t give me nothing that I really wanted. Shoot, I just turned thirty years old last month and I could still can beat out all the little young things that be sprouting up everywhere. Always asking if my man had a woman. You know what? I am going off of topic.

But anyways, I looked good for my age. I was fit, I was thick and I was a strong Muslim woman that held it down. I was always independent, that’s what my momma’ taught me. Never trust a nigga’ and hey that’s been my motto for like ever.

And it’s worked for me so far. Well except for right now. I am getting divorced. But you know what? Life goes on. I will find something bigger and better. Preferably not in Michigan. Everybody knows everybody and everybody has been with on the low-low or married to everybody. And that wasn’t my thing. I had a little bit more class than that. And I didn’t want people to be up in my business. Because I had a bad temper and I didn’t want to have to beat somebody’s wife down or slash someone’s tires.

Beth leaned over to my ear and whispered, “His lawyer is here now so let us do all the negotiating.”

“Uh, I know that. This is the second time you’ve told me that,” I whispered back a little louder.

She cleared her throat, “Ms. Shareef, I am letting you know again because you know what happened last time.”

I looked around sheepishly, “Yeah, yeah. Your right.” I sat back up and zipped my lips straight across and through away the key.

I believe she was referring to about a month ago when the property negotiations began and he had said something disrespectful about I shouldn’t get anything from the condo in Birmingham. I went off. But not this time. I was going to be good. The longer we argued the longer it would take to get him out of my life.

His lawyer took a seat and I crossed my legs and waited for the BS to begin. Every word out his mouth was a load of horse sh…

“Good evening, everyone. Shall we get started.”

I looked at Wakil and then crossed my arms over my chest and rolled my eyes. I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I have been over him since way back when. Honestly, I don’t know where we went wrong. I know I wasn’t the best Muslim but dang he wasn’t spending enough time with me and he wasn’t providing me with mental stimulation. All men should know that woman are emotional creatures and we have to be stimulated mentally and emotionally first before you can even reach the physical part. That’s psychology 101. Duh.

Wakil was in his late 40’s but he could hang like a young cat. And he knew what he wanted in life. He wasn’t on that illegal trip like most young Black Muslim men that I knew. I wasn’t into all of that. I wanted to be taken care of, that’s what I deserved. I mean I was living good in Atlanta; I had a nice job and a nice house. Then he came along and promised me the world.

I would’ve been stupid not to take him up on that offer.     

He owned an import/export business that originated in Georgia and then he opened up one in Dearborn. He treated his business like a baby, he wanted to be near it as it grew large and boy did it grow large. Allah blessed him with a successful business and a loving wife. What more could he want?

I was still down south and missing him when he called me up one day. He told me that if I moved to Michigan with him we could spend more time together and wouldn’t have to live worlds apart anymore. For him I made that sacrifice. And I would soon regret it.

He came up to me one day and asked me how I felt about a second wife. I went off on him. Because he’d never asked me about that until we moved here. So I could only speculate that “those” brothers, yeah the broke ones with no money that have two or three wives had gotten into his head and planted an ugly seed. After that day he never brought the topic up again. But out bliss didn’t last long. He then started pressuring me about a baby. I said “oh hell naw, who you been talking to now!”

Again he didn’t tell me who put that idea into his head but I could sense that it was one of them no-good brothers that got five kids and six baby momma’s and don’t pay for none of them. I wasn’t about to mess up my body or my lifestyle for no rugrat. I wasn’t ready. I was still working on myself and my Islam, although it was taking longer than I thought.

“Asalam’alikum, Nabila.”

My upper lip went up and I muttered, “Wa’alakum salam…brother.”

He smiled, “Oh, I am a brother now?”

I didn’t make eye contact and snorted, “If it quack like a duck then it must be a duck.”

Beth looked at the both of us probably thinking they’re about to get started again. “Ok, hey, can we start the proceedings.”

The other white lawyer quickly agreed. To them all we were was time. And time to them equaled money. He began by opening up his manila folder and pulling out sheets and placing them in a row. “So this is what we got concerning the condo.”

Beth took the papers and looked them over, she then handed them to me. I seen some pie charts and then at the bottom was an amount. I whispered in her ear. “Ms. Shareef wants to know what this bottom number is supposed to represent.”

He cleared his throat, “Oh, well, that’s the sum she would be settling for.”

My eyes bulged out of my head. Beth put her hand on my lap to keep me from getting up. “Let me handle this… uh, the condo is worth over 100 grand, this number is less than 1/5 of the market value. How did you come up with this figure?”

“Well,” his lawyer began. “We factored in a multitude of things.”

“Like,” Beth motioned with her hand.

“Like for instance, who paid the real estate agent, who paid the utilities and the mortgage, who furnished the home.”

I felt myself getting heated. Heated beyond words. I couldn’t hold myself back. How dare he not give me half of what I helped him earn. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Wakil!”

Beth put her hand on her forehead, “Here we go again.”

“Oh, so I am not a brother anymore?” he grinned.

“You conniving, trifling, son-of-a…”

“You know what,” Beth stood up and gathered her papers. “I quit. I can’t deal with the constant bickering and fighting going on between you guys. When you get it together call me.”

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit- Introduction

By popular demand a few sisters was telling me that I need to write some Muslim fiction based on a show called the Real Housewives. Even though I was doing tons of writing already, I thought it would be fun to write something different. This is my first one...Subscribe to this blog and then you can get updates as to when the other episoded will be posted. I hope you enjoy.

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to go deeper into the life of a Muslim woman living in Detroit? It’s not 100% accurate of a Muslim woman’s life on t.v. when it shows constant terrorist activities, sexual inequality or oppression. It’s not always about being perfect, having the best life or the greatest husband either. Life is all about obstacles but mostly overcoming them and bouncing back.

Behind the beautiful façade is something much deeper. No one is perfect and we each have a flaw but still we stand proud to be Muslim none the less. There are imposters, haters, leeches, thieves and hoes that will come across us and make us question our path in life but there are also some that will boost us up and guide us further into Islam.

This will be the chronicles of five Muslim women who live in the Metro Detroit area. Some have earned higher degrees while others have only GEDs. All of them may come from different walks of life but they all have a goal, whether it’s being closer to Allah or finding a single Muslim man without two other wives.

Welcome to the life of the real Muslim housewives of Detroit.

Episode #1- Who is Sabina Sabr?

It’s hard to believe that only five years ago, I’d graduated high school, wore a size 4, had no kids and a bright future ahead of me. Who would of thought that the girl mixed with Yemen and Black who was voted “Most Beautiful” and “Most Outgoing” would end up with four children (all of which are under the age of five), be a size 20 and have a lazy man who belittles me at any given moment.

No one would have thought that and no one knows how unhappy I am.

The people who used to know the old me, the crazy party girl that every man wanted, were cut off because of the embarrassment I’d felt about my weight, my life, everything. They tried to come over, but I was too ashamed of how things would look to them. They were all doing what they said they were going to do, see the world, make an impact. Me, I was stagnant while the world flew pass me.

I knew a few Muslim sisters from this so-called community that I was cool with but even they didn’t know much about me. I kept my business to myself. Because the Muslims here…

What words could I describe to them? Petty, argumentative, problematic, over drama filled… the list goes on but I digress. These Muslims liked to hinder more than help, even if it seemed like they were. They would spread business like it was no tomorrow. For that I had to be careful of what I divulged to others. Which wasn’t hard because they didn’t need to know anyway nor could help the problems I was having.

Unfortunately, my business was out there, little snippets of it was at least with a twist on it of course. But most were outright lies. I don’t know how they could sit there and back bite another Muslim and then have the audacity to give you greetings and smile in your face like nothing happened. If was a hoodrat I would’ve been snatched up a  couple sisters.

Sometimes I’d wonder how the small stuff got out, I wasn’t saying anything and I guessed the “Borks” didn’t have any hidden cameras placed inside the walls, the only person I could think of was Amir. I didn’t want to believe he was going to the brothers and talking about me but I could definitely vision it. He was becoming a very weak man, why wouldn’t he be weak in that area of keeping his mouth shut?

He told me all the gossip about everybody before we got married like people having kids to get more welfare money, brothers going to Ohio supposedly on Jummat but really going to get second wives and even brothers stealing converters for cash. That should’ve been a sign for me.

But it wasn’t.

Ever since he was laid off he has been way too vocal and moody like a female on her period. I married a man, not a woman. Amir was getting unemployment checks and “hustling” on the side with some brothers in Detroit. I didn’t even want to know what they were doing. I just told him before he left with those hoodlums is that Allah was watching him. I could only hope that what he was doing was legal. But for some reason, I wasn’t seeing any monetary results of this so-called job. On payday I would ask him to put a few dollars down on some of the bills and he would always reply “insha’allah”. I’d curse him under my breath because he knew (and so did I) that in his heart he wasn’t going to give me and the kids a penny.

Our crowded two-bedroom flat in Hamtramck was dilapidated to say the least. The slum landlord was from Pakistan and barely spoke a lick of good English but it got “good” when he was negotiating American Money transactions. The rent was $350 a month, it used to be $400 but I had to literally get down in my abaya on my knees and beg him to lower it. That $50 was for my infant’s diapers. I felt like an animal but I had to do it for my kids.

Who else had their back?

“Ummi?” Amira, my five year old and my oldest called out as I stood in the bathroom looking through the raggedy mirror at my green eyes.

“Yes?” I heard Tahera crying.

“She hit Suli,” she rubbed her eye.

I sighed deeply before screaming, “Tell her to come here now!”

I loved these kids to death but they were driving me crazy. I picked up an overgarment and slid it over my head; it wouldn’t go down past my wide thighs. I held my breath and pulled the old fabric over my hips and let go all the air. My stomach budged out of the form fitting garment. I needed to get some new larger clothes but we haven’t had the money. I’d gained more weight. Another child began to cry as I sulked.        

That would now make two kids a-weeping. Where was their father at?

My shift began in a few minutes and he promised that he’d be here by then to keep the kids quiet as I answered phone calls. I worked for Comcast part-time as a phone rep. We couldn’t live off of food stamps alone we needed money for bills and kids clothes.

The phone rang at exactly the time my shift started, three kids were crying now in the background and the house looked like crap, toys were everywhere.

“Asalama’alakum?”

“Hey!” Amir said, he barely gave Islamic greetings back.

“Amir, where are you? You said you would be back to watch the kids.”

“Whoa, chill out. I said I got you.”

“When will you be here?”

“Probably in like an hour,” he said coolly.

“An hour?” I shrieked and looked at the clock. “My shift starts now.”

At this point I was hyperventilating. Who was going to watch the kids while I worked?

My eyes bulged, “You want me to lose my job…”

“Allah will suffice.”

I could sense the smugness in his voice. “Yeah, because you sure wont,” I said under my breath, not meaning for him to hear it. It just kind of slipped out.

I guess that set him off. “What did you just say to me?”

There was nothing but silence-other than the crying symphony going on behind me.

“Oh,” he laughed. “You ain’t got nothing to say to me now, huh?”

“Amir…I’m…”

“Naw, naw yo’ fat ass is good.”

“That’s not necess-”.

“No! don’t cut me off,” he yelled. “You know what?  You should be glad that I’m even wit’ yo’ dumb ass. How many fine women come up to me every day, wanting to be with me and they aint’t got no kids eitha’. Girl, you got the game twisted.”

I stood there, my eyes started to burn and redden as I stayed on the phone and listed to how fat I was, how dumb I was and how I was replaceable. Warm tears began to stroll down my face and my work cell phone began to ring. It was a customer calling.  

   

  

A Rainy Day At Work

Constant rain…it’s all we ever get here, snow and rain. I feel like I’m in England in the late 1800’s. Yesterday was a gorgeous day though...and guess what else? Yes, I had the day off ! I am glad to say that I enjoyed every minute of it. The sky was blue with fluffy white clouds. The sun was shining and it was the perfect temperature. I decided to edit early in the morning (of course) and spend the rest of the day with the people I love. For some reason nice weather makes me happy. Even if the day is horrible, I will be like oh well, at least it’s still nice out. Unlike today, I am cooped up inside work while it pours down outside. And watches the news to find out that everyone’s basements and streets have flooded.

While at work, I turned on Oprah (for no particular reason). I haven’t watched an episode of Oprah in years but on a whim today happened to be her last show on the air. Luck me. I’ve always loved and respected Oprah because of her story and it gives me hope. It gives others hope too. That it is possible to be done so wrong and turn it into something that others can learn from.

During this episode, I felt as if she were talking to me (yeah, weird, I know) when she gave her farewell speech. She was so eloquent in her speech when she said that everyone has a spark in them. It is our job to pursue that spark to our best ability. And that spark had nothing to do with how much money you made or how famous you became, that spark would grow larger because you were fulfilled. She almost made me cry. Because I felt every word of it.

And then I took a look at myself. Am I where I want to b? And what’s holding me back from my spark growing?

I go to work and in a lot of the rooms are these large picture windows, I always peer out of them when I get settled in and I pretend that it’s a prison. And there’s no way out. I can’t breathe. I can’t grow. I’m trapped by these four walls because I have bills to pay and people to please. I’m not there because I want to be.

These minutes, these days, these weeks and years are passing us so quick and I’m drowning. This is not life.

I feel free when I write. I feel free when I create. And when I learn and people share knowledge with me. I am free when I speak and mentor. This 44 plus hour a week job is not freedom. Sometimes when I am on my way to work, I think about taking a detour and never looking back, leaving everything, the worldly things. The petty things. The stupid things. And starting a new life. A new me. People think I’m crazy when I say it but it’s how I feel.

Something inside is telling me to leave here, life can’t be just about paying bills and living check to check, making ends meet. I know it. Some people would say that I was living in a fantasy but isn’t that where greatness begins…in the form of a dream?

I’m at work on a late lunch, its 8pm and I am supposed to be getting back to my unit, but I am here writing. I’m here writing because there’s no one to talk to. Just me and my pen. Oh, and some paper. I have 3 more hours to go in the bottomless pit full of non-creative minded individuals. And when that’s over, I go home and write and do it all again the next day.

Much love,

The Juicy Details,

xoxoxo     

Going to Volunteer

Exercised today…doing this boot camp video, trying to get skinny. That’s the new thing, right? I see a little difference and only been doing it for like a week. Yesterday I bought a bike at a church yard for only 60 bucks. Can’t get any better than that? Hey, it’s a recession and money is tight. I haven’t exercised in like six months because I was obsessed with my book (and still am). I edited it twice and sent in out to over 35 agents and publishers last week.   

Now we play the waiting game…oh how do I hate the waiting game. Last week out of that 35, I got two rejects. And that’s ok. One of them stung a little because it simply said “No, thanks.” I was like son of a bitch! I would have rather received a generic rejection letter like usual. As the days go on, I am wondering and doubting whether my book will stand against the rest. Doubt, its evil head is rearing.

Every day it seems to get harder and harder to accept the fact that my book may never be published. And that kind of makes me sad, it actually makes me angry and sad times two. Everyone keeps saying don’t give up and persevere but its like how many query letters can I send out before I exhaust all my resources?

Ergh…it’s mentally frustrating. My life right now is frustrating to say the least. I called my mom up and told her that something was missing. And I didn’t know what. She told me that she was still searching for it too. The thing is that I don’t want to spend my life searching for myself. Or that missing piece. I am only 23.

I probably sound ungrateful. I am ungrateful to say the least. Not everything is going right in my life and I am having regrets about certain decisions I’ve made but I am alive. And isn’t that the best of things to have? It is. I know that I need to stop over thinking things and stop trying to over achieve and go with the flow. And figure out how to start fresh and start again if necessary. As people we need to learn how to make mistakes, deal with the consequences and bounce back even stronger than before.

Everything won’t go how we want it to. Plans are meant to be changed.

So recently, I have been wanting to volunteer my writing services and fell upon an article on how to lend my services for a good use. The article told me how to go about and find different organizations and how to approach them and possibly volunteer. So that’s my goal for the weekend. No editing. No worrying about my weight or how life isn’t going my way but how to help others with the gifts God gave me.

Much Love,

The Juicy Details

xoxox  

An Emotional Breakdown

Yesterday was a beautiful day and I didn’t have to work. Two pluses. For some reason after I did like 6 hours of writing I became a little weary. Then I got overwhelmed and became depressed. So I decided to have some alone time outside. I got dressed up and went to the beach. I drove around and saw the ducks and the people, the couples. It was nice. But I still didn’t feel right.

            Something just came over me. I made a video blog about how I was feeling. Then I started crying. It was weird. I guess everything is overwhelming. But these bouts of super highs and super lows kind of haves me thinking. Maybe I am unhappy with the quality of my life and I am not doing the things that I am supposed to do.

            This morning I forced myself to exercise. I stopped exercising when I became obsessed with the launch of this book; editing, re-editing and reading takes a large part of my day, my time. I gained some of the weight I lost last year. I need to take control of things because things are out of control. My health, my well-being and spirituality has taken a hit and balance is needed in my life.

            Exercise is one of the things that makes me happy and I am going to incorporate it at least five times a week. I am going to stop using food as my savior and start getting active. Start becoming more spiritual and getting in control of my life. Because I can’t keep having this mini breakdowns which is not good mentally.

            Tomorrow is a new day and I need a new outlook on things. I am grateful for a lot of the things that I have but I know there is something else out there for me. And I am going to have to give my attention to each of my ventures collectively and stop putting all my eggs in one basket. And I feel a lot better from exercising today and drinking water. I need to do this for me. And hopefully I will have a lot less breakdowns because life is too short to be angry, depressed or wanting.

Much Love,

The Juicy Details,

xoxox

MTV Producer Responds Back!

Hmm…Hey everyone! It is I again, the one and only. Of course I always have to write before I go to work. Eek! Work. Yuck. Well, it is ok because I know that I am heading in the right direction. I don’t really have a topic per se to elaborate on but I did want to post some things that were happening in my life so far.

As everyone knows I am trying to become an author and a writer. Those of which are my highest passions but on the same level as fashion, make-up and entertainment. I was reading this article about this lady from New York House Wives, whose name is Bethany. She has a new show of her own called Bethany Ever After. I was skimming through the article and it said that basically she went on the reality show to promote herself and her passion.

            I said wow. That’s really cool. She was a struggling chef living in New York, poor and used one reality show to get to the next to get to her huge career and now has millions of dollars of endorsements. Why didn’t I think of that? (Ding) A light bulb went off in my head. People are always telling me that I should be on t.v. or I should be on the radio. But I need to be somewhere in the peoples eye. And yes, that has been my little secret…well not secret but I do want to be on t.v.

            So, I am going through my second draft of my book which I am finishing up this week and about to ship out. I want to be on t.v. so I could market myself and I think more people need to see a stylish divalicious African-American Muslim. So, I took the liberty to go on different websites and see what shows I could get on. Not shows that would exploit me but shows that would show the real me. I applied to six shows. And one producer from MTV emailed me back. Which is super exciting because my sister and I love MTV. 

            Yesterday my friend took a lot of crazy and bombshell-ish pictures of me so I can send them to MTV. They also required me to send in a video of myself. The show is all about fashion and I am excited. Although I don’t know if I will get on the show, it’s cool to be noticed by a producer from MTV. So I will keep you all posted on the outcome.

            2011 is our year. I keep saying that because I have challenged myself and other sisters and people that I know to take this year and lets see what we can do. How much can you get done in an hour, a day, a week, in the year?  People need motivation and so do I. People who have stable support systems and goals are much better in life, more happier and most likely to succeed. Let’s stop hating on each other and breaking each other down and let’s get to work.   

            I spoke to another good friend yesterday while I was off from work and she said that ten years had passed and she hadn’t accomplished anything, she said the time was now. And I felt her when she said that. Because three years passed and I was left asking myself the same thing. What have I done with myself? What have I learned or accomplished within that time?

            Yeah, I feel good about the remaining months of this year. I am making progress. I think. Lol. Well, that is all for now and I am off to work. So until next time, Muah!

The Juicy Details,

xoxo